She sits down in front of her easel.

Surrounded by colors.

Red,

yellow,

cerulean blue.

There are paintbrushes,

Strewn about.

Sable,

nylon,

synthetic.

Behind her, a life’s work

Of paintings gone by.

Old women,

her nephew,

the ocean.

Crevices she has explored,

Creases she’s captured.

Waves

Coming in,

Going out.

She sits, a span of white her view

Taut and stretched, patient

 Waiting,

Expectant,

Anticipating.

The delicate touch of her hand.

With brushes that tickle.

Smooth,

Cool,

Warm.

Remembering days when,

Her vivid stories were told.

A place,

A life,

A home.

Her hands in her lap, she sits.

A tear in her eye.

No color,

No images,

To give.